


Upon the Green

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, archive warnings: enemies to lovers, archive warnings: even though they're already a bit married, archive warnings: reads a bit like fable, archive warnings: shakespeare is a nightmare, archive warnings: the animals talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 01:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9945002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: A Midsummer Night’s DreamAU wherein… Emma Swan and Killian Jones are dramatic, vaguely magical marrieds who scheme, plot, and otherwise interfere with Prince Henry’s troubled love life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> “Royal fairies, feuding royals” AU for Fantasy Pretzel Week on Tumblr! Very loosely based on Shakespeare’s _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. I’m also worried this is not… “modern AU” enough for the parameters of this challenge, but it’s an enemies to lovers kinda thing so even if it’s half-wrong it’s also half-right. Oh, btw, Henry Mills is v bisexual in this story, as he is in most of my stories involving Henry Mills.

PUCK  
How now, spirit! Whither wander you?

FAIRY  
Over hill, over dale,  
Thorough bush, thorough brier,  
Over park, over pale,  
Thorough flood, thorough fire:  
I do wander everywhere,  
Swifter than the moon's sphere,  
And I serve the Fairy Queen,  
To dew her orbs upon the green.  
The cowslips tall her pensioners be.  
In their gold coats spots you see;  
Those be rubies, fairy favors;  
In those freckles live their savors.  
I must go seek some dewdrops here,  
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

— William Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ (2.1.1-15)

—

Never, in all his many days as a fae, had Killian envisioned such a grand affair, never mind his own wedding day. It seemed as if every flower, on every branch and every bough, was in full bloom despite the lingering frost of late winter. The fountains, though generally dry and barren this time of year, bubbled and gurgled with nectar far too sweet for the season.

And the lights, to his own childlike delight, were scattered playfully throughout the crowd, whipping in and out around shy, early buds; among the whimsical hairstyles of the kingdom’s most fashionable ladies. The moon itself seemed to shine brighter than he had ever seen it, the world abuzz with the Princess’s impending marriage. To him. Killian, a nobody, a foot soldier and royal guardsmen with not much to offer.

From his dark, hidden nook by the doorway he observed the tense standoff between Emma and her father. “I won't hear of it,” her voice sharper than he could ever remember, her tongue clicking against the back of her teeth, “not with the wedding so close.”

They were very quickly approaching the final ceremonies after days of celebration that had included drinking, eating, and dancing; the marriage itself scheduled to begin in just a few hours. And the Princess, _Emma_ , sounded alarmingly concerned given the immediacy of their impending union.

“I only ask that you consider your people, Emma,” the King urged quietly, “this is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

Killian loved Emma, had loved her for longer than he cared to remember. And he wasn't naive, to be sure, he knew how odd it must seem; the Princess of the fairies, a blessed, bountiful kingdom, marrying a poor soldier of mediocre standing. But for whatever reason, she had chosen _him_. Despite all her beauty, grace, and kindness, she had seen fit to love and wed _him_. He knew her parents had been… less than enthused about their marriage, but it was quite another thing to hear it spoken of mere _hours_ before they exchanged vows.

He heard Emma release a long, drawn out breath betraying a deep and overwhelming exhaustion. He would be concerned for her obvious unhappiness, only he found himself distracted by the vice of insecurity tightening its hold around his rapidly beating heart. _Was she having second thoughts? Did she **really** want to marry him—?_

The startling sound of shattering glass interrupted his mutinous, worrisome thoughts, as well as _any_ reply his soon-to-be wife may have made, in his defense or otherwise. Fearing both David and Emma’s ire at being caught eavesdropping, he fled for the central ballroom, his face flushed and legs shaky. _What might she have said?_

Emma’s father was a just and fair ruler, by all accounts a good man, but Killian couldn’t help the niggling feeling of betrayal that began to worm its way into his subconscious as soon as he had overheard the King’s concern. And Emma, whom he loved dearly, who he could barely wait to wed, when faced with the possible truth of those same doubts, seemed to pause in considering her answer, and Killian could hardly be expected to keep from worrying. _Would she live to regret him?_

—

When he stood in front of his wife mere hours later, he tried to quell the disappointment and uncertainty. The ceremony was just as beautiful as he had anticipated, his bride even more so. Her hands were just as warm and delicate as they had always been, her lips the same, blushing pink—the taste just as sweet as he remembered… and yet.

He said all the right words at all the right moments, squeezed her hand, brushed his lips across the high apple of her cheek; danced and drank and sang, he took part in the festivities as any blissful husband might, burying his doubts and fears beneath the love in her eyes, and the evident happiness of their kingdom. _She loves me_ , he thought, watching the light of the moon twist and bend to suit her shape, _and I love her._

—

_25 years later…_  


“The list of offenses,” the well-dressed cricket reads aloud, “are as follows…”

A small, unfailingly polite insect, wearing the tallest top hat by far, regales the audience with his long, cleverly worded list of over fifty sins committed within their borders in the many years since the Princess’ marriage and subsequent rule. An exhaustive, but by no means complete, compilation of the King and Queen’s _many_ squabbles, and they had, all of them, finally had enough.

“Their last argument kept my tree from blooming the last _three_ summers,” the bluebird chirps, her voice high and clipped, “I’ve had to fly over hill and dale just to find a scrap to eat!”

“The water in the lake has been putrid for months,” complains a young buck, “what are we supposed to drink?”

“Friends, friends!” The cricket interrupts with a sonorous cry, his chirping pleas silencing the outrage of his friends and countrymen, “You’re all angry, and rightfully so—”

“We have to do _something_ ,” a squeaky voice interrupts from somewhere in the crowd, “this is intolerable!”

“Enough!” He is loud for so small a creature, his voice and his words a familiar source of comfort and strength in these uncertain times. He adjusts the bow around his collar and continues, “If you’ll allow me,” and he smiles, genially, “I _do_ have a plan.”

—

_5 years later…_  


The loud, rambunctious sound of their combined laughter rang pleasantly through the forest. It was a joyous, familiar harmony, as Prince Henry and his boyhood friend had played, hunted, and otherwise spent their free time with one another over the years.

“Do try to keep up, Henry,” Marcus laughed, his voice echoing beneath the canopy of leaves above their heads, “We can’t have your new bride thinking you a cripple, now can we?”

Henry sighed and forged ahead, his heart violently lurching at the prospect of his bride-to-be. Marcus had seen fit to mention Princess Violet an alarming amount these days, and Henry had tried, desperately, to understand its significance. Would he simply miss his friend? What with his position in the Navy, they were unlikely to spend much time together regardless, so the fact of their separation seemed irrelevant.

“I’ll never understand how you can be so excitable _this_ early in the morning,” Henry groused, the heat from the sun causing an uncomfortable chafing between his collar and neck, “it’s unnatural.”

Henry paused at Marcus’ uncharacteristic silence and glanced around the seemingly empty path, his eyes thinning suspiciously at his friend’s lack of reply.

“Don’t be mad—” Henry yelped in surprise at the somewhat alarming sight of Marcus’ unnervingly charming, upside-down visage, his long hair falling dangerously close to the forest floor, a wide and playful smile on his face, “It’s not my fault we can’t all be so dashing in the morning.”

Marcus hung quite precariously from the branch of a nearby tree, his knees firmly hooked over the gnarled wood, and his face was endearingly flushed with the sudden rush of blood.

“One day you’re going to break an arm,” Henry scolded, his head falling to the side, “and I’ll be happy to leave you wherever it is you fall.”

“Ah, young Prince,” Marcus playfully replied, “you’re too good a man for that kind of talk.”

Watching Marcus drop gracefully to the ground, Henry tried, in vain, to ignore the small spark of attraction that seemed to hum along his arms and down his long, annoyingly elegant fingertips. Marcus had never been the most humble of boys, and Henry had grown used to the strange, conflicting urge to be both absurdly proud and jealous of his friend. A remarkably active child, Marcus had a somewhat nauseating aptitude for acrobatics—which tended to come in handy wandering crowded streets looking for food to steal, or climbing the rigging of his father’s many ships.

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Marcus answered with a grin, his gaze softening despite the caustic tone.

The usual tittering of the forest seemed to suddenly taper off with a swiftness that felt almost rehearsed, as if all the birds and insects had unanimously decided to cease their usual chattering. Henry tried not to despair at the return of their _own_ silence that seemed to inevitably follow in its wake. It had started a few months ago, shortly after the proposed engagement to Princess Violet, and like Marcus’ frequent jabs, Henry had spent a good deal of time trying to make sense of it.

He had experienced the miserable reality of tense silences before, being royalty, awkwardness was, unfortunately, an inevitable side effect, but he had _never_ felt that same pressure in the company of Marcus. Until now, that is. And it was then that he noticed the way the light seemed to fall over his face, catching the sharp loveliness of his features that Marcus had become famous for; the varying strands of brown hair that could only be distinguished in _just_ the right light. And his eyes, nearly black most days, now betrayed an almost inhuman array of earthen tones, the same colors that rendered him almost mythical on the deck of the _Nautilus_.

—

“What is it you think you’re doing, my love?”

Emma spared the barest hint of a glance towards Killian’s sullen expression, his eyebrows resting dark and heavy over his stormy gaze. His words rang painfully hollow, still, even after so many years of hearing their emptiness echo inside her heart. _How I wish you wouldn’t call me that_ , she thought miserably, trying to soothe a thirty-year ache she could never quite cure.

“Nothing _you_ need to concern yourself with, _my darling_.” A similar bite, a familiar warping of a common enough endearment shared between a husband and wife. Although she had wondered, from time to time, if she could even call them that anymore. In quieter moments she might return to a softer, happier time—when her name on his lips was a comfort rather than a cruel condemnation. When his touch had been frequent, a natural and expectant thing, as opposed to the stiff, ceremonial performance that it had become.

Henry and Marcus reminded her of who they used to be, two friends, floundering in the uncertainty of something more. The love in Marcus’ eyes whenever he beheld Henry was a painful reminder of the earnest glances that Killian had often sent her from across the room, his playful teasing and invasive questioning a constant companion in the years before their marriage.

She had only wanted to help, to free them from this infuriating, fruitless game that she had been watching them play for years now. So she had asked the sun, politely of course, to shine a bit brighter in that particular moment—had lifted a graceful finger into the air and the trees had obliged, shifting in _just_ the right way to let the light shine through; to expose the otherworldly beauty of Captain Nemo’s only son to the one person who seemed unusually blind to its brilliance.

“I think that light is playing a little _too_ generously,” he observed from over her shoulder, his words dripping with disapproval. She scoffed and kept a careful eye on the fragile scene before them, the very life of the forest moving carefully in line with her performance.

Whereas Emma had taken a perverse sort of pleasure in observing Henry and Marcus’ relationship the last few years, Killian seemed to actively hold the two boys in _contempt_ —a suspiciously bitter taste on his quick, cruel tongue. Always making some kind of thinly veiled criticism of their “courtship,” the King found them to be a “mismatched pair.”

“To force them together,” he condescendingly explained, “would be an unusual kind of torture, even by your _generous_ standards.”

“At least _someone_ would be happy,” she mumbled under her breath, the two boys seemingly frozen in the soft, buttery light of the sun, their chests moving imperceptibly slowly with every quiet breath.

—

Henry’s eyes had begun to water, as if they had been open for hours instead of minutes. And it seemed as if the sun had begun to set, even though he could have sworn that they had set out moments ago, an hour at most.

“When did it get so late?” Marcus asked, his words an eerie echo of the confused thoughts rushing through Henry’s own mind. He turned slowly towards the full, towering trees, his gaze bright and sharp. “We should head back,” he suggested lightly enough, the gentle hand on Henry’s shoulder offering a fleeting sense of comfort, “Meet your Princess tomorrow.”

“You worried?”

“Me?” Marcus laughed, his chest a bit puffier than usual, “Never.”

—

Emma watched the two boys walk away with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Don’t fret, they’ll be back tomorrow,” the usual, exasperated sigh falling from his lips. “You can play with your toys then.”

“They’re not my _toys_ ,” her long, blonde braid whipping around to frame her slender neck, “and I’ve had just about enough of _you_ today, thanks. Isn’t it about time you retreated to your little hovel, anyway?”

Killian’s eyes closed at the sound of her fading footsteps, somehow both impossibly light and furious all at once. He knew _how_ , of course, Queen that she was, a study in so many contradicting, _impossible_ things.

When he opened his eyes he could still see Henry and Marcus ambling away in the distance, the width of their slim, boyish shoulders brushing against one another in the silver moonlight. He could see the twinkling lights of the village at an even further stretch, the inky blackness of the sea beyond the quaint homesteads, and took a deep, cleansing breath. If he really focused, he thought he could still smell the salt of the ocean, hear the bustling sounds of the villagers going about their day. He could even feel the heat of the sun that morning, feel Emma’s warm, eager presence at his side all those years ago.

_35 years earlier…_

Killian was beginning to suspect that this assignment had been given as a punishment. Being tasked with guarding the Princess had seemed like a blessing at first, he could barely believe his good fortune… and then he had met her. Every short, fiery inch of her; impossible to reason with, to watch over, to _do his job_.

Just as beautiful up close as she had seemed from afar, her golden hair falling to her waist as if it were a waterfall, cheeks and lips flushed varying shades of pink and red. She even _smelled_ remarkable, like the first, gentle scent of honeysuckle in early spring, it’s floral headiness mixed pleasantly with all that rain.

“Killian!” his name harsh and clipped in a loud, commanding tone, “Follow me.”

The King and Queen stood frozen and worried, staring pleadingly at her departing form, and a sick feeling started to take root in his gut. “Um, Your Majesty—”

“Don’t question me, _guard_ ,” she interrupted quickly, her feet moving in time with her swift, angry puffs of breath as they moved through the trees, “We’re leaving.”

“I’m sorry, Princess, but… leaving?”

Generally quite proud of his careful, well-articulated speech, he couldn’t help the internal berating of his own stuttering questions, his less than stern comportment with his charge.

“Princess,” he said again, quickening the pace of his own steps, trying (and failing) not to be distracted by the usual overabundance of loveliness, when he realized she showed no signs of slowing down and gently gripped her elbow, “ _Emma—_ ”

She finally paused at his touch, her gaze _furious_ at his attempts to stop her, “Your Majesty,” he said again, carefully removing his hand from her arm, “Where are we going?”

“I can’t _take it_ anymore!” she whispered, her eyes inexplicably wet and soft when moments earlier they had reflected nothing less than hardened steel. “They just want me to stay here _all the time_ , do _nothing_ … sew _tablecloths_ , meet… _suitors_ , stand around hosting meaningless _parties_ … and all these things I’m _supposed_ to do, and I don’t—”

Killian meant to interrupt, maybe to reassure her that she was on a path meant for great things, or maybe that she was lucky to live such a blessed life, but all that came out was her name and an ill-advised suggestion, “Come with me.”

—

A whole day and evening spent amidst the hustle and bustle of a human village, warm and alive and he had never seen her so happy. All it took was a simple cloaking spell, some drab clothing, a hooded cloak, and no one had suspected a thing. A normal day, where Emma had just been… Emma. Where she could run, play, and dance with no one watching, no expectations to meet. She had looked beautiful in that dirty old cloak, wandering among the busy, dirty stink of life that they rarely saw in their own idyllic kingdom.

His love for her then had been an entirely pure _thing_ in his chest, a doubtless certainty that he had never thought to question. Until all his dreams had come true, until she had fallen in love with him; until their wedding day, until her blasted father and all his bloody _concern_ had rather rudely interrupted an otherwise perfect ceremony. And she had never admitted it, not once, not in all their years as a married couple, as rulers of their kingdom, had she revealed an unprompted truth: That their marriage, for all its pomp, had been an illusory, regrettable event. Killian was no King, no husband fit for her or anyone.

He had simply wanted her to _admit it_.

“Ahem.”

The soft clearing of a throat roused him from his sad reverie, and he turned to find Archibald, the well-dressed cricket, standing quite patiently at his elbow.

“Your Majesty,” he began, bowing so low it seemed as if his ridiculous top hat might tumble right off his head, “may I have a word?”

Killian sighed, he was overdue for a monotonous, repetitive speech about the citizenry and their many dramatic and ill-founded complaints. “What it is _now_ , cricket?”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, I only wish to make a… suggestion.” The King raised a skeptical brow, and he continued, “If I may.”

“Well?” Killian prompted impatiently, “What is it?”

The cricket contemplated, removing his top hat and fingering the rim, carefully picking and choosing the right words in order to bring his plans to fruition without offending the King. A tall order for a tiny bug, to be quite sure.

“Her Majesty the Queen,” he started slowly, hesitating at the King’s small intake of breath, “has quite a vested interest in those boys.”

“Yes,” his sharp tone akin to the snapping of his fingers, “I’m well aware, so if you wouldn’t mind arriving at the point…?”

“As a man fond of a good wager, Your Highness, I do believe you might find that interest to work quite handsomely in your own favor.”

That seemed to catch the King’s otherwise divided attention, his handsome face betraying a quiet interest. “And how have you arrived at that conclusion?”

“She would be quite willing to see them happy,” the cricket pressed on, his limbs stilling on the brim of his hat as his confidence grew, “and I do believe you could use such a desire to your considerable advantage.”

 _Quite willing_ , Killian thought as his eyes returned to the empty path the boys had tread, their forms now barely discernible in the darkness.

“Yes,” he answered decidedly, his gaze never wavering from the village beyond, “I do believe I could.”

—

“I’m sorry, you’d like me to agree to _what_?”

Killian had to suppress a chuckle at the delicate arch of her suspicious brow; it was, after all, the only bit of her he could discern from his end of the table. Their breakfast was piled unusually high that morning, with pastries both sweet and savory, piles of fruit so fresh they still sparkled with the dew of early morning, decanters of wine so rich it was as if the very air between them became intoxicated by their scent.

“A simple wager, my darling, I’m almost certain you know what those entail.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she answered hotly, pouring herself another glass of wine, “What are the terms of this… ‘wager?’”

“Simple, really,” he paused at her predictable scoff and continued, “if your sweet Prince Henry can defy the wishes of his family and choose the person he _really_ loves, as you so _desperately_ believe, then you, my love… will finally win.”

“‘Win’ what?” she answered innocently, lips pursed suspiciously tightly.

“Don’t condescend, love, it doesn’t suit you,” he replied happily, his own wine tasting bitter in his mouth, “You know perfectly well what I mean. I will concede to you in all things, exactly as you wish.”

“That’d be a neat trick.”

“Ah, yes,” his finger raised pointedly in the air of war between them, “but if _I_ win, and young Master Henry meets _my_ every expectation, you must admit to the _truth_ of our blissful nuptials.”

“Well, then,” she answered after a careful moment of silence, another elegant sip of wine, “in the greater interest of my happiness I see no reason as to why I should decline your _generous_ offer.”

He raised his heavy, bejeweled goblet in the air, an infuriating smirk on his face, “Shall we make a toast?”

“We shall,” raising her own wine in challenge, “May the best woman—”

“...Or man,” Killian interrupted playfully, his large ring tapping meaningfully against the rim of his own cup.

“‘Or man,” she corrected, nodding her head in agreement, “May the best man _or_ woman, win.”

**Author's Note:**

> Per usual, this story is posted on my writing blog, [@hencethebravery](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com). There's also an accompanying photoset for this particular tale if you'd like to [have a look](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com/post/157734263646/fantasy-pretzel-week-day-7-any-modern-trope-in)!


End file.
